


Lovers in a Dangerous Time

by dracaenamarginata



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: 23-Year-Old Empath Profiler Insolent, Alpha Will, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Babies Food and Feelings, Chesapeake Ripper Misanthropic Shrink Beardy Dad, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Hannibal, The Babysitter is Stevo from SLC Punk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-04 10:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 8,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5331167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracaenamarginata/pseuds/dracaenamarginata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, I have words to share and sometimes, I only have words for myself.</p><p>I think it's time to let this story out to play.</p><p>12/05/15 Book One: The Joy of Eating (chapters 1-14)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Water

Once upon a time...

Sitting on the edge of the fountain, toes not quite reaching the cement, Will swung his legs in an attempt to dissipate the tension and it seemed to help. He didn't recognize him at first. He told himself it was because staring through the crowd had hypnotized him. He was just a little dazed. 

He sat next to him at the edge of the fountain. Will felt his heart jump and his lips broaden. He reached for his hand and was met with no resistance. Hollow eyes flitting, refusing to focus- his companion gave no indication he registered the contact at all. 

“I love you.” 

Listening, he drops his head but rubs their shoulders together. Will leans up to kiss his cheek and grins so much his face hurts. 

He got Mary to bring him here. She knew he wouldn't cry for a while now. He just needed to see him. He would start to panic if his brother's face began to go fuzzy in his mind. His brother's Mary- he didn't know her name- stepped closer and now he stood- head still down, he doesn't look back. 

Will remains poised over concrete, every muscle dutifully transfixed, and watches them retreat. He knows which speck he is in the crowd.  
Right up until the precise moment he doesn't.


	2. Oatmeal

Consider [X](http://coniferousawakenings.tumblr.com/post/134597879603) if you will [X](http://coniferousawakenings.tumblr.com/post/134597941288)

The small, windowless waiting room just made him angrier. Scribbling the first thing that came to mind, unceremoniously fulfilling each demand in what seemed like an inexhaustible ream of paper, not bothering with additional information as it occurred a few questions later. The paper didn't deserve it. He shouldn't have to be here in the first place.

“Hannibal. Did I say that right?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Dr. Graham- call me Will.”

Gestured into an enormous library of an office he first mistook for something to pass through on the way to their proper destination. Blue-green walls and natural linen draped beside windows two stories high. The smell wasn't so much old books as leather and coffee, bourbon, and a hint of chewing tobacco. He thought he could just make out a wisp of the dried dark liquid at the corner of his therapist's mouth- hard to tell with the beard. Dr. Graham-Will was not dressed to impress with his thick oatmeal cardigan, more leather on the elbows, fraying at the sleeve hems. Soft at the sleeve hems. It looked cozy. There was even a fireplace along the far wall. It looked cozy.

“Let's get this paperwork out of the way. Hobbies- any arts, crafts...”

“I cook.”

“Food is life. You put the life in your belly and you live. Great. Any needlework?”

“If a button falls off, I can sew it back on.”

“No knitting? No urge to crochet matching booties and bonnet for a housecat?”

“No. Why?”

“Standard question- on the form. Sometimes we get malingerers checking yes on everything without reading anything- fun way to sort them out.”

“Some enjoy dressing their pets.”

“Yes, but no one in their right mind would admit to doing it, really a dual-purpose question- how aware is the patient of social norms? And I like to see them smile. Maybe I'll get you to smile.”

Is he flirting with me?

“It's my understanding you don't believe you should have to be here.”

“My boss and I share a difference of opinion.”

“Agent Crawford.”

“Yes. He's obsessed with the Chesapeake Ripper. He's grooming me to catch him. I can't give more than the evidence allows. I can't- he doesn't understand this, demanding I make connections regardless...”

“What happens when you refuse?”

“This. Ordered to therapy. Questioning my loyalty to the Bureau. Accused of protecting him. Or wanting to.”

“Protecting the Ripper?”

“Absurd. I know he doesn't mean it, he's just frustrated we haven't made progress.”

“That doesn't excuse his behavior. Or change how it affects you.”

“That's not really what it's about. The Ripper has a significant portion of the public on his side. Mistrust in what a coworker would do were they to find the proverbial smoking gun. Everyone's been reevaluated psychologically at Quantico.”

“But somehow you got a chance for extra credit.”

“No, make-up work. Jack's been combing through old case files, trying to connect forgotten homicides to the Ripper, hoping the first one could have been on impulse- left forensics or a more personal motive. I was looking at a man who had just been treated for a coyote bite in a Baltimore ER, suspended by wrists and ankles in animal clamp-jaw traps between two trees in a clearing- the traps were from the man's own truck- a weapon of opportunity, genitalia partially eaten by a coyote- quite possibly coincidental, but he was insistent on intent.”

“Intent to humiliate?”

“At the mercy of a canine, an offering.”

“Not sure I'm seeing it, sounds more like an interpersonal grudge. Who's the prime suspect?”

"His friend who accompanied him to the hospital the night he went missing. The friend's wife says her husband came home around the time Mr. Olson was discharged and we have nothing to show otherwise. No motive, either."

"And this friend, could he be the Ripper?"

"No, we've established he was home during most of the disappearances."

"Sounds like a dead end."

“Then tell Jack so this can be done with.”

“Why should my opinion matter more than yours?”

“You know why.”

“Swooning over the wrong alpha male.”

His patient couldn't think of anything to add, so he just smiled.

-

Original notes on personal style of Young Omega Hanni: effing GORGEOUS, geek chic, like Nordstrom's does Spencer Reid, shiny oxfords with no socks, pleated slacks, sweater sets with mother of pearl buttons. From a distance, he blends in with the lab rats, but up close he's all soft and bright, intoxicating omega.

Alpha Will's style: he's only 38 but most probably mistake him for 50 on first glance due to the fact that he's basically two eyes within a lot of hair. They assume the pockets of his cardigan hold linty Werther's Originals, fishing lure, partial dentures, lots of wadded tissues, and maybe a bottle of White Out that seems totally dried up when you ask to borrow it, but wait- he has a system, he reassures you he can still manage to get a few drops out and it works, but now your document is smudged with grimy fingerprints as if he had been greasing a door hinge with one hand while eating a bucket of fried chicken with the other and you're like "oh... hey... thanks."


	3. Kibble

The second time was better.

Will had stopped at the pet supply shop near Baltimore General as he did every Friday after work for a massive bag of premium, all-purpose kibble. He had often seen someone else here, choosing a more conventional-sized bag of the cheap stuff. He recalls a few Fridays ago, the man only purchased a German 'training' collar- a choke chain with spikes on the inside. Will had not seen him since.

As he pays for his purchase, he enquires casually of the cashier. 

“No, he hasn't been in.” The polite smile of someone who had learned not to ask after pets with so many ways to have short lives. Sometimes mercifully short.

“I hope it wasn't the poor thing I saw on the side of 495 a couple weeks back.”  
There was no such thing.

“No, he's from Church Hill, no jobs you know. He just works up here.”

“Oh, thank God.”  
There was no such thing, as far as he could see of this world.

He knew the truck- grey with a red and blue stripe and he thought the license plate was something that started with BZ- he had snuck a glance at it when he saw the man's last purchase. He would find that truck. 

He should go home to his own dogs. They had been alone all day. But he would find that truck. He couldn't recall wanting anything in a long time. And he didn't just want this. It needed to be done. Everyone needed this as badly as he did, they just didn't know it.

He turned his cell off and drove south on 95, nearly two hours, his spine tingled with the notion he was likely only about ten minutes behind his intended prey. He could drive through the neighborhood, hoping the vehicle he sought wasn't behind a garage door. Or he could check the parking lots of the couple local bars. Best to go the quickest route first. It paid off. 

He waited over forty minutes for the man to emerge and confirm his own identity. Will followed, a block behind, and noted the address. He would return next week, while the man was working, to find what remained of one of those somethings whose only mercy was in the shortness of it's life.  
-  
A nondescript, fair-haired man in his thirties is arriving home in the middle of darkness.

Tossing keys in a bowl on a sideboard near the front door.

He is about to remove his jacket when he sees the pair of eyes locked on him in the moonlight. 

He intends to scream. Nothing.

The man attempts to recede backward into the wall, footsteps partially frozen.

The fore and middle finger of a right hand jut through eye sockets, pink vitreum coating latex coating short nails.

The man's arms flail wildly, unguided.

One is snared from his side and bent upward, shoulder dislocated before striking agony can be transmitted along nerve fibers, the second arm not far behind the fate of it's brother.

His right leg kicks and as it approaches midair, a punch from the left lands to the man's solar plexus. His left leg crumples beneath him.

The assailant grabs hold with both hands from alongside the right leg, lifting at the ankle while stomping into the knee with a hiking boot.  
The man comes to notice a disembodied hollow shrillness permeating the space and decides his voice has returned, scream-groaning for mercy. To fate. To no one in particular.

Thick-bladed. Serrated canine steel. Unsheathed in reflected constellations. Plunged through clothing and skin and fat and viscera without friction. Glides from pubic bone to sternum and is replaced with a fist clearing the thicket for another.

Determined hands grasp hold of pericardium. A simple matter of mechanics- if the heart cannot fill, it cannot pump. Life convulses between his fingers as night-blackened blood flows torrential, glistens over four entwined legs.

Slicked-back hair under a stocking cap. Eyebrows and lashes coated in petroleum jelly. Operating room sterile shoe coverings on boots oversized by one increment and several layers of socks. Old, very clean clothing he wouldn't miss.

Ah, the luxury to plan.

He took a deep breath. Opened his eyes.

“A personal cause homicide.”

“I could have guessed that.” 

“Precise destruction in answer to perceived improvidence.”

“Yeah, alright. Sadistic four-point restraint, two-point... humiliation. Flip either one upside down...”

“I would consider a tentative connection.”

“Damn straight.”

As he relinquishes these shimmering visions, Hannibal feels his stomach sink. 

Jack returns the glossy photographs.  
“Keep them. Where you can see them. Where I can see you see them.” 

Between deliberate beats, the four chambers of his heart swarmed of fluttering moths.

He had given up fighting it.

-

He had given up fighting it.

Will drifts awake with a smile.

Hyperhidrosisless deep sleep. Naked.

Gliding fingers down his bare torso, tips whisper against himself, a twitch and he is hard in his hands. He spits generously in each palm before enveloping himself. Thinking of nothing in particular. 

He comes in multiple waves that course outward as ripples in a pond. He hadn't felt compelled to do this in years. 

He slowly rises from the mattress, yawning and arching his back.

He pads to the kitchen and flips on the small television, scanning through channels of local morning news. Nothing yet. 

He hesitates a moment before peering through the paned window. Something catches in his throat at the weak sunlight on dry flowing fields. Today would not be a new day. Suddenly he takes notice of the dull ache behind his lungs. 

He would dig deep, probably much deeper than he had to but no more than he needed to. 

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.  
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.  
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.  
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.  
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.  
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

He'd replaced the earth an hour before and still, he stood. Gripping the shovel handle, blade anchored in thin land, caked and powdery. Wondering if she liked these kind of days. Most dogs did- scents from miles around and a crisp electricity.

The rest of what he found in so many barely-tied Hefty bags he pitched through the mirror surface of the James River- a lead, bowl, and that collar.


	4. Lunch

“I've been reading about you.”  
An almost melodic voice through a wry grin.

“I'm curious if you feel as self-conscious as I feel on your behalf.”   
The tone was mocking and bitter.   
“I thought you would have read that before our first meeting.”

“It needed context. Freelance Consultant, Behavioral Science. Does that come with dental?”

“For me.”

“Opportunity for advancement? Sorry, that was insensitive.”

“He does the best he can.”

“I know.”

“I didn't come here today to defend Jack Crawford. You cleared me for duty without doing your homework.”

“Didn't need to. Tell me about your mother.”

“Why don't you tell me about your mother- why don't we start there.”

“Both my parents died when I was young. I grew up in foster care. And your mother?”

“Never knew her.”

“Siblings?”

“No.”

“Just you and your dad.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about your father.”

“He worked in the shipyard.”

“Rouen? Does he still work?”

“I don't know. I hope not. He was always tired. I'm so sorry about your parents.”

“Head-on with a drunk driver, at the top of a hill. He was going the wrong way. My brother and I were in the back seat but we didn't remember much- I think we'd been sleeping. If you were in the same room, did you talk much?”

“When I was little. Then he sent me away.”

“Did you want to go to Paris?”

“I didn't know. I was afraid, but I wanted friends. I took the train by myself.”

“How old were you?”

“Almost thirteen.”

“Oh. Did you make some friends?”

“No. They kept the girls and boys separate.”

“But not-”

“He thought it would toughen me up. Did you get to stay with your brother?”

“No. It would have been nice to- we got to see each other a few times. Then he ran away and I got sent around. Some treated me well, some not so well. A few beatings, sometimes the money that was supposed to feed us went to get someone else high. But mostly it was just an absence.”

“An absence of love.”

“I thought I could earn my place in the world by making myself useful. What better way than by saving lives? I worked my way through college on grants, scholarships, every shit job that tipped well, but I really needed to make him proud. I couldn't bring them back, but I could help people like them.”

“Your parents. You became a trauma surgeon?”

“I waited until I got the acceptance letter from Georgetown before I looked him up. I thought if he wanted to see me by now he would have- never even occurred... what would he have to be ashamed of... the system was different for him, probably showed him his place in the world too early. Escaped foster care at fourteen. He spent the next decade working the streets. OD'd not six months before I found him. I should have been notified as next of kin but with no estate to settle, I guess they just didn't bother. I failed as his protector. Doesn't mean I can't still make him proud.” He smiled warmly. “My big brother Mischa.” 

“Turn around.”

“You don't have to say anything about Paris.”

“Turn around. I would wake to breathing. They were all around my bed- grabbed my arms and legs and held me down. They took turns- numbers they drew at lunch outside. I got so tired. I got in trouble if I fell asleep in class. I could feel it moving inside me. I fought back more, got them to beat me harder- until I felt nothing. The next thing I remember is the nurse talking to someone- saying the fever broke. They sent me home as a provocational influence.”

“I'm sorry.”

Will turned back slowly to see the room was empty.


	5. Vodka

Ushered through the door with one arm, the other still clutched that personnel file.

“More bedtime reading.”

Will ignored the implication. He couldn't conjure a single word in response anyway.

“Can you tell me why you tried to kill yourself?”

“There was a considerate way to phrase that.”

“You were borderline underweight when you were admitted- less of you to kill. Trying to make your job easier?”

Hannibal turns and begins to walk out. Will grabs his shoulder.

“Hit me. Leave if you still want to. But hit me first.”

Hannibal strikes him across the face.

“Hurting someone else now- you're making remarkable progress.”

“You just wanted me to touch you.”

“Do you still want to leave?”

“No.”

“Did you change your eating habits?”

“Yes.”

“To change your body?”

“Yes.”

“You must have looked like a wiry alpha.”

“I felt safe. Up until the precise moment I didn't.”

“You can't fool all the people all the time.”

“At first I told myself he was restless. But his eyes settled on me more and more. I told myself there were just two sessions left in the semester. I was conceited. Anything. He followed me. Maybe he was going to ask me out- I don't know- I ran. I locked the door and it started to rain. Opened a bottle of my roommate's vodka. Everything came apart- I had never been safe. I couldn't escape what I had been to everyone except myself and I killed my child. I had killed my child.”

“You were a child. Protecting yourself on instinct when no one else would.”

“That doesn't make it right.”

“What would have been right? You tell me this magical solution.”

“I didn't want to die. But I couldn't imagine going on. I thought I would gather the fortitude to follow through once I got started. But it calmed me.”

“The blood.”

“Yes. Suddenly everything would be alright. I passed out, I think because I wasn't used to alcohol. I hadn't bled much. I woke up in New York General.”

“May I examine you?”

Hannibal methodically unbuttons his cuffs and folds up his sleeves, taking care to keep the number of folds symmetrical (three).

His therapist kneels before him, takes his patient's hands in his own and turns them over, revealing two thin, smooth, perfectly identical light pink lines. Vertical between the two tendons- no point severing them whether he wanted to live or not. Excepting their owner, they were the most beautiful things William Graham had ever seen.

“There is so much power in being desired. Not everyone wants to take that from you.”

“Jack Crawford is a good man.”

“We're not all bad.”

Remaining on his knees, Will turns the hands back over, folding one above the other, and presses his lips to them.


	6. Taffy Apple

Sliding the small blade of a pocketknife through a mass of toasted pecan, milk chocolate caramel, and tart white flesh, his therapist glanced up.

“Apple?”

“No, thank you.”

“What did you see- out in the field, an association?”

“I hallucinated. Abigail Hobbs. She gasped. And took my arm.”

“I thought one of Stammets' victims did wake up.”

“A man- he died on the way to the hospital.”

“I'm sorry to hear. His last moments must have been terrifying.”

“Many are. Can't be helped.”

“You did everything you could. Hobbs was determined, almost... predestined.”

“He got the knife through them both so quickly. They wouldn't have any clue what had happened- just felt the life leaving their bodies, warm draining to cold void. Falling...” 

“We begin in our fathers, continue within our mothers, before we are able to live within ourselves.”

“He took her mother first- like he was just getting her out of the way. And then he took her. He couldn't release her to the world. Rather she cease to exist.”

“Consuming dead ringers wasn't enough. Trying in vain to put her back inside him.”

“Oh. Huh.”  
The conversation was making him uncomfortable, not in any one perceptible way but the office suddenly didn't feel large enough to hold the tension.

Will scratched a quick note.

“What are you writing?”

“Nothing.”  
He turned the clipboard to reveal the word 'nothing.'

“Why did you do that?”

“I was curious to see if you felt as self-conscious as I felt on your behalf.”

“This has nothing to do with why I'm here.”

“You have every right to keep it to yourself, just know you wouldn't feel so uncomfortable without conflict.”

“Conflict.”

“I can... surmise you either feel you should have children, but do not want to, or you desire to and feel you shouldn't.”

A cold, undirected stare greeted him.

“Don't answer the question, speak your emotional state.”

“Angry. This has nothing to do with why I'm here. I didn't expect you to be the kind to fall back on stereotypes.”

“Sometimes we can't help avoid them. We're not entirely original creatures, as much as we would like to be.”

“There it is. Defective in indulging instinct. Defective in denial.”

“You're deliberately misunderstanding me. You have a conflict, not a defect. You fail to reconcile want and should. And should's never helped anybody.”

The stare now appeared to be directed inward. No less cold.

“What would happen if you followed the urges you've kept down for so long- what is this terrible, unforgivable thing?”

Deep breath, catching in his throat. Gathering strength to force the words out.

“I would become a stay-at-home mom.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing.”

“It's not the best thing.”

“To bring someone into the world and give them their home in it. Yes, I can imagine so many other more important things to do with one's life. Let's see, there's [he turns the clipboard]. Oh, and let's not forget... very important [clipboard].

Apple?”

Blushing and unable to make eye contact, Hannibal extended his fingers and felt the fruit juice drip between them.  
And besides, Eden had proved unfulfilling.


	7. Olive Oil

“What about yourself?”

“Huh?”

“Do you trust yourself?”

“I have faith in myself to do the right thing, although that may be antithetical to my job description.”

“You haven't decided.”

“I don't need to.”

“Not the least bit curious where your own moral compass points?”

“Is this the part where you tell me I have a conflict?”

“I think this is where you tell yourself if you feel conflicted. Role play- very simple, no wrong answer- just don't tell me. This is for your eyes only- think about it when you're alone.”

“Okay.”

“Say I'm the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“...alright?”

“Aaagh- you caught me!”

Hannibal rolled his eyes.

-

Soft. Pearlescent pink. Curved and full. It also looked like a gun. He bought it because it didn't look like... that. It was simply the inverse of his own anatomy. He poured a bit of olive oil on his palm and let the excess fall on himself, gliding what remained in his hand along silicone, pressing it to himself to warm, sliding it over himself to tempt his body until he couldn't stand not having it inside any longer. Aaah. Breathing deeper and waiting a moment longer for more warmth. Him. The. He knew him only as the public did but knew that didn't change knowing him as no one ever had. He wouldn't allow himself to remember this later. He never did. Fuzzy unrequited notions from the back corners of his mind- easy enough to dismiss. Until a face came into focus.


	8. Coffee

The hatchback wound its way cautiously, deliberately over the rain-drenched sand-and-soil path just as the sun began to illuminate the atmosphere behind the gray woolen blanket of rising damp. A dark blue Japanese model. Dark, but bright.

It looked exactly as expected. A classic Victorian country home, but ultimately unassuming in its incorporation of farmhouse and bungalow elements. White but not bright. Clean lines but not freshly painted. Double-high windows composed of many smaller square panes and perhaps a few shingles askew. As the municipal road became a private drive, an orchestra of half-woken canine sounds began to tune up.

The door opened before he could knock. It startled him and he found his hand begin to reach for the firearm at his side, the outline barely visible through his coat. Unloaded, although the .22 at his ankle was. He stopped himself halfway through the gesture. Made eye contact with the gentleman in t-shirt and boxers slowly raising his palms. 

“I'll go quietly. It was worth it.”  
Keeping his hands raised, leaning forward to place a small kiss on his potential arrester's cheek.

“Your work shouldn't stop.”

“Coffee?”

-

“I didn't think you would, but I wasn't entirely sure.”

Suddenly Hannibal felt the weight of the gesture. As the implications began to tumble through his mind in rapid succession, he shook the notion off his shoulders.  
“You will tell me everything. And I will come with you.”

“It's not safe.”

“It's not negotiable.”

Will exhaled through his nose, glancing down at the kitchen floor, then filled two mugs of black coffee. 

“Cream? I don't have sugar.”

“Yes. I don't take sugar. I don't usually take cream, but I would like some.”

Will sniffed at the open carton, kept perpetually unrefrigerated. Satisfied, pouring a few tablespoons in each cup.

“I'll start at the beginning. I was working late.”

“In the ER?”

“Yes- covering for this fossil with a bad back. We all took turns covering for him- he spent his shifts on the lounge floor with his feet on the futon and his face buried under a fishing magazine- snoring. We'd wake him up to sign the discharge papers. 

So, anyway this guy comes in with what looked like a dog bite- his buddy brought him in- they're both drunk- having a good time. I tell his friend to leave the room while I stitch up his right forearm and he keeps laughing and tells me he and his friend were baiting coyotes. They caught one in a clamp trap and it bit him. He said he might have shot it or kept it as a pet- he wasn't really sure- but when it bit him he decided to “show it who's boss”- hacked off its paws with a hatchet and threw it in the Chesapeake.”

“What did you tell yourself?”

“The clouds had been gathering for the better part of my life. When the first raindrop fell, I didn't have to tell myself anything.”

“You told yourself not to get caught.”

“I changed specialties. I moved out of my shack in Wolf Trap and bought this place. I told myself if it happened again-”

“It happened...?”

“If I did it again, I would plan it carefully.”

-

“Where's your friend? We're ready to discharge you.”

“He went home. I'm alright to drive.”

“I thought your friend brought you here.”

“We drove separately.”

Will smiled slightly. 

“Did the nurse start a rabies series?”

“Nurse?”

“What about tetanus- when did you receive your last booster?”

“Ughm...”

“Lemme just grab that for you.”

-

“The traps were still in the back of his truck.”

“The truck he led you to in a compliant midazolam stupor.”

“We tend to call it Versed. It wore off as he froze to death.”

“You watched.”

“I savored the moment.”

-

Yesterday.

“It's cardiac massage... backward.”

“You don't need to be a surgeon to think of squeezing someone's heart.”

“It doesn't hurt.”

“If you think he's the Ripper, why are you sending me?”

Jack rolled his eyes at the joke.

“Don't ask the question if you already know the answer.”

“I'll rouge my knees and roll my stockings down. You keep the car running.”

For that, Hannibal got an elbow in the ribs. It was worth it.

The assisted living facility looked like it used to be a strip mall and was currently being pummeled with thick, lazy rain.

“Doctor Caldwell? I'm Hannibal Lecter- nice to meet you. I'm from the FBI- I'm here to ask you some questions about a former patient of yours.”

“Very nice to meet you...”

“Yes- his name was Jeremy Olmstead. You treated him May 22, seven years ago for a canid bite in Baltimore General's Emergency Room. Can you tell me what you remember about that night?”

“I can't say I recall that man, specifically- I saw so many patients...”

“He was found a week later, murdered. Toxicology showed midazolam. Anything you might remember could prove very helpful.”

“We might have administered Versed if he was agitated.”

“We?”

“I.”

“It wasn't mentioned in clinic notes.”

“I wouldn't be surprised- we can't remember everything at the end of a shift. I'd remember you.”

Hannibal forced a practiced smile.

-

The day before yesterday.

He really wanted that Us Weekly. It was about a year old and dog-eared. Instead, he redoubled his efforts to pretend to read US News and World Report. No doctor would be caught dead reading Us Weekly even if it was what he wanted most and 'Doctor' Lecter was aware of social norms. That's why he made sure to purchase light green scrubs instead of light blue- the kind most other hospitals seemed to favor. At least it was flu season and no one would think twice about his surgical mask. If he were caught, he would affect his strongest accent and feign confusion over the computerized system, pretending to be looking for one patient's records. It wasn't exactly a lie.

He had already visited the old paper archive of patient records downstairs, where he had easily slipped in and been very reassured Dr. Graham was not the doctor of record for the man with the coyote bite. But he was likely on duty late into the night in the ER during the time of the man's admission, perhaps never bothering to sign out, and would be questioned. “Have you ever lost anyone close to you?” “Do you own any pets?” would be some of those questions. He would be added to a list of persons of interest. Well, that was generous. He would become the list of persons of interest. But not if he could stay off the radar in the first place.

Personnel records were not protected by HIPAA privacy standards, as patient records were. Logging every keystroke would waste valuable server space- at least that's what he hoped. There shouldn't be a record of his tampering. It felt like he had been waiting most of the day for this administrator to leave her desk. He got hopeful around lunchtime, but she had brought a sandwich in a bag. She didn't seem to require fluids. Finally, late in the afternoon, she got up to remove a layer of very premature snowflakes from her car before they slightly melted and refroze on her windshield. She didn't sign out. But Dr. Graham did. 

-

“Now you're obligated to testify against me. We can't have that.”

“Is this one of those old-fashioned courtships where you kidnap me to let me know you're interested?”

“I just transferred everything overseas. The victims' families could never touch it.”

“You learn that from the Wall Street Journal?”

“Certainly not from the New York Times.”

“You didn't work late that night in the ER, if anyone asks.”

Will raised an eyebrow.

“I changed the record. Consider it my dowry.”

Will smiled kindly, his face registered not a trace of surprise.

Hanni smiled but wouldn't look up.

Will offered his hand.

His love gingerly curled flushed fingers around it.


	9. Champagne

“I didn't think I had to worry about you.”

Hannibal glared at him.

“You know what I mean.”

Agent Crawford personally recruited every behavioral consultant in the Bureau's employ, and in so doing, did a little profiling of his own. An omega just out of college may only work a few years before leaving to start a family. You could frame this in a positive light- one could only stare directly at true evil for so long before burning out. Or, more cynically, omegas like babies. The Bureau chose the latter because it was cheaper- half pay and no benefits.

“I didn't think I had to worry about you losing respect for me.”

Jack sighed.

-

Each December, Jack held his annual Christmas party. Which is to say, he brought champagne to the office break room. After a couple glasses, he pulls Hanni aside and gives him a gift card to Bloomingdale's for ten grand. All for a kiss on the cheek.


	10. Crumbs

“Would William wish to say a few words?”

“I need you desperately. Please take care of me.”

“... um, okay. Would Hannibal wish to speak on his behalf?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead.”

“I agreed to his request.”

“Oh... got it. Alright then. By the power vested in me, by the state of Maryland, I now pronounce you wed. You may kiss.”

“Ow!”

“Honey-”

“Your beard.”

“Sorry.”

-

It appeared as though a movie were playing on a screen before them in which the world shook violently. In reality, it was the other way around and their world consisted of a wood-paneled Suburban bouncing through stony terrain with little in the way of shocks left.

His newly betrothed's lower lip looked rugburned, if anything redder than before. He hadn't spoken once in the forty-five-or-so minute drive and up until now, Will followed his lead, neither one quite sure where the other was going.

“I used to use pomade but lint and crumbs would get embedded in it.”

“Have you tried conditioner- you could rinse the excess.”

“I like that idea. I'll get some as soon as we're back to civilization.  
...but I don't want to smell musky all day ...like aftershave. I want to smell like you.”

“Gardenia.”

“Mmmh...  
I could use yours, I mean if-”

“I assumed I would.  
But I should tell you- my plant prefers humidity and direct sunlight.”

“Fill the solarium if you want.” 

“You have a nursery?”

Hmm...  
“At the back of the house. All empty- just some vine growing up the outside now. How long have you had this plant?”

“Ten years.”

Bingo.

“It had to fly cargo.”

“From France.”

“To New York. I was terrified it would be lost.”

Without glancing over, Will placed his hand on the seat between them, palm up. Hanni took it.  
And smiled in Will's direction. 

Their plan for civilization was amended. Now Will would help move boxes of books, kitchen gadgets, and lots of clothes from a prefurnished sixth-floor walkup in the heart of one of Baltimore's many murder districts.

“You deserve to be safe.”

-

They arrived at the cabin just below the Pennsylvania border around sunset. Just one large A-frame room with a cellar underneath. Will kept the pantry well-stocked and to the refrigerator, which they had just plugged in, they added milk and orange juice. Hanni insisted the eggs were easier to whisk at room temperature and Will insisted the butter stay soft and the cream not be so cold as to cool the coffee.

Will got a fire started in the stone hearth. Normally, he would have used the fire pit outside, but he sensed Hanni felt safer indoors. He had a couple skewers, large marshmallows, a box of graham crackers, a Symphony bar, and jar of peanut butter.

“I think this will be too sweet for me.”

“The peanut butter takes the edge off. And make sure to blacken your marshmallow.”

“Should I let it catch fire?”

“If you like it a little rare- otherwise let it smolder and the center will have time to melt.”

Normally, a wedding night carried certain expectations, but Hanni didn't have good associations with certain expectations. And besides, Will had gone his entire life without regular sex and he didn't need to start now.

“You know you never have to sleep with me.”

“I know.”

"Stick the chocolate to two cracker halves with the peanut butter and smash the marshmallow between them."

“We should do the wedding thing.”  
Hanni held his s'more to Will's lips- prompting Will to grin and offer his treat. It was delicious and not too sweet, but very messy.


	11. Honey

It was a very enjoyable dream. He wasn't sure how it started, but suddenly his mate became a very frisky companion. He hadn't even bothered to wake him up.

Then, Will realized he wasn't the one dreaming.

He felt a tear fall on his bare chest. He looked up and, as his eyes adjusted to the dark, saw that Hannibal's eyes were open, but he was not present.

“Honey...”

Will took the hands that clasped his shoulders, but they would not loosen their grip. He tried rubbing large circles on his mate's back, a thin t-shirt glued to skin with cold sweat, and this seemed to rouse him. He slumped down and fell over, pulling himself to his side of the bed.

“What did I do?”

“Nothing I couldn't handle. It's completely understandable- don't worry about it.”

Hanni sobbed quietly, curled in a fetal position.

Will offered his hand, but it was refused.

-

Of the three speckled camping mugs in the cupboard, his love had taken the chipped one. It wasn't like him to miss a detail like that, so he must have chosen it deliberately. Perhaps he felt sorry for it.

Will stepped carefully to the porch. A beautiful creature struggling to figure out exactly who he was sat on the edge, bare feet in the frosty grass. Smoking. Since when did he smoke? He wore bethune plaid pajama pants, t-shirt, and a leather jacket Will hadn't seen before, but it was well broken-in. Will sat quietly in a chair. Hanni didn't seem to notice. Ten minutes of silence passed by. Hanni was unable to sit completely still, as if he were suppressing the urge to fidget. Will wondered if he was pre-heat. Another ten minutes passed by.

A voice broke the silence and startled Will.

“I wasn't born conflicted. I won't die conflicted.”

He lit another cigarette.


	12. Popcorn

They sat in bed with a large bowl between them on a stack of old newspaper. It was a can of cream-of-celery soup Hanni found in the pantry. To which he added whole milk, pepper, and to Will's spoonfuls, buttered popcorn.

“You don't like popcorn?”

“I like it too much, that's the problem.”

“So, you love it.”

“I watch my weight.”

“What- go down?”

Hanni threw a fistful of the stuff at Will, a couple kernels catching in his beard.

“Commere, let me feed you like a baby bird.”

“No!”  
He blurted it out through laughter that bubbled up within him from somewhere deep down inside. He reached for a piece of beardcorn, stared at it for a long moment, and ate it.

-

They drifted in and out of sleep in each other's arms. The autumn sky was overcast with a white mist, but the windowpane-shaped light on their wool blanket was bright like a sleepy, sunny afternoon. Every time Hanni changed positions, he would settle back in with a 'hmmm' sound. Almost like a purr.

Will decided that when he ran out of days, he would simply return to this one. And live in it forever.


	13. Beer

A dart struck an undisclosed location on a faded map of the Chesapeake Bay. Underneath, corkboard on a wheeled frame- vibrating as it absorbed the impact. Will removed his hand from his eyes. 

“I thought that's how you did it- we couldn't find a geographic pattern.”

The cabin was his alibi, as was the book he wrote there- The Evolutionary Origins of Social Exclusion. Luckily, no one would ask to read the manuscript, as he had no intention to write it.

“We travel outward from this point, in a spiral, until we find an individual or group meeting the qualifications.”

“They asked me why you didn't just go for the easy targets, I said you couldn't let anyone think they were safe. You are both a vigilante and a terrorist.”

“I like to think I'm a good listener, too.”

-

If they happened upon anyone in the forest, which they wouldn't, Will would be Bill, taking his nephew, Dan deer hunting. Dan was developmentally disabled and didn't speak to strangers. Perhaps he was self-conscious about his French/Lithuanian accent.

It only took two days to track appropriate prey. Will was relieved they didn't have to spend ten days hiking and driving along backroads as he once had to do on one of his more dismal trips. Wood smoke, crackling embers, and booming voices interrupting each other. A late wolf tied to a luggage rack. Crumpled beer cans tossed to the edge of the clearing. Laughter. 

Someone stumbling into the brush. He was singing the tune to “Working Overtime” with his own lyrics. He was a stunning emerald green, at least to Hannibal, who had offered to 'cover' Will with a rifle outfitted with a night vision scope. The man's right leg jutted out slightly and bent at the side of his ankle as he fumbled with his fly. Will stood behind him but waited for the man to empty his bladder so his Suburban wouldn't smell of urine. 

“Everyone's drinking in the bathtub. Everyone's-”

A muffled cracking sound, like a branch snapping under fallen leaves. Two of the green hydra's four arms fell away. The remaining two gave two big thumbs up. Hannibal felt his cheeks burn red as though his father had just embarrassed him in front of his friends. Will quickly grabbed the man under his arms and pulled him into the deeper woods. He took everything from the man's pockets, zipped his jacket, and removed his stocking cap. He tightened his boot laces and lashed them together to form a 'handle' between his ankles, which he grabbed decisively with a thick work glove.

They began walking briskly.

“Never meet your heroes.”  
Will smiled.

“No...”

“It's alright. I don't want you with me when I do this.”

“Where do you want me?”

“At home. Barefoot, pregnant, and armed.”


	14. People

Two months previous.

Session Notes  
Appointment date: Friday, September 13, 7:30pm

Today I had the pleasure of meeting Hannibal Lecter, a lovely young man I hesitate to call my patient, as the reason for his referral remains unclear. This meeting took place at the behest of Agent Jack Crawford, Mr. Lecter's direct superior at the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit. It is my understanding that Mr. Lecter's and my mutual colleague, Dr. Alana Bloom of Georgetown and visiting Quantico lecturer, suggested myself as a neutral party and potential evaluator of Mr. Lecter.

Mr. Lecter arrives at 7pm, one half hour early for his appointment as requested, to complete requisite intake forms. He appears well-groomed and carefully attired. He speaks deliberately. He is considerate and mannered. He does not know why he has been chosen for additional psychological evaluation. 

We discuss the stressful nature of his career, specifically the situation involving the death of Abigail Hobbs, daughter of Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Despite the recent trauma, Mr. Lecter appears neither detached nor overwhelmed. He demonstrates a calm acceptance of extraordinarily chaotic circumstances.

When queried as to what he would change about his current professional environment, he mentions he occasionally feels pressure to come to more definitive conclusions than which he would otherwise be comfortable. He is concerned as to the potential loss of credibility on the part of the Bureau as it pertains to the case of the "Chesapeake Ripper." I have reassured him of the wisdom of due diligence and advised him to abide by his instincts.

William Graham, MD

CC: Agent Jack Crawford  
Behavioral Science Unit  
Federal Bureau of Investigation 

-

Two years previous.

Let's begin with what we know about the Chesapeake Ripper. Each year for the past five years, one man has disappeared from the Chesapeake Bay area during Maryland's Autumn wolf hunting season. Three men were members of a larger hunting party and all had successfully harvested a wolf immediately prior to disappearance. 

Amongst hunting parties, the circumstances of the man's separation from the group are identical: he leaves the campsite after dark, presumably to urinate, his companions, often intoxicated, only realizing later that he has not returned. No body or personal effects have ever been recovered. Sniffer dogs have traced a path leading from just outside the campsite to a nearby rural road in the last three disappearances. 

The first two disappearances were not initially federal investigations, as local officials had yet to recognize a pattern. Following the third disappearance, an FBI field officer apparently exclaimed the missing hunter had been “ripped from the face of the earth,” the unsub since being referred to as the Chesapeake Ripper.

Given the controversial nature of wolf hunting, I believe it is reasonable to assume vigilantism unless another potential motive becomes apparent. With his self-imposed quota of one victim per season, it's difficult not to see a parody of Maryland's issuance of wolf hunting permits, carrying a personal limit of one wolf harvested per licensee.

Unlike all other legally-harvested wildlife in Maryland, wolves are apex predators and not eaten. They are hunted purely for sport. Ergo, it is reasonable to presume it is not simply injustice this subject believes himself to be fighting, but institutional injustice. 

His identification with animals suggests his initial encounter with what he perceived as institutionalized abuse occurred during the relatively primitive state of childhood. Perhaps this abuse affected someone he felt he should have been able to protect.

He possesses a high degree of strategic intelligence with excellent impulse control and has been able to elude capture thus far. His crimes are highly organized and purpose-driven. They are also sadistic in the sense that they are meant to inspire fear within the sporting community and a subsequent change in behavior.

He likely is mindful of what it takes to appear successful and well-adjusted. He is socially adept but truly relates only to those on the outside looking in. He is in his middle 30s to middle 40s. He is confident, capable, and physically fit. 

I believe he regards wolves as persecuted and misunderstood, much as he regards the original abuse victim- be it himself, a relative, or friend. This leads me to suspect he is more likely than not a member of a sexual, racial, and/or religious minority.

He would choose an impressive home so as to appear beyond reproach. This home would be not be located close to neighbors for obvious reasons. He lives alone in self-imposed exile, save for perhaps a stray animal or two he couldn't resist taking in.

He is capable of stopping. If his current lifestyle threatens someone whom he feels it is his duty to protect, he may cease activity permanently.

Something keeps bothering me about his sense of justice. If hunting is morally acceptable to him only when it supplies food, I think I know what he is doing with his trophies.  
I believe he is eating them. 

Hannibal Lecter  
Provisional Consultant to Agent Jack Crawford  
Behavioral Science Unit  
Federal Bureau of Investigation


End file.
